


You've got me slippin’ and a slidin’

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Derek, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Delivery Person Stiles Stilinski, Fishing, Hermit Derek, Luthier Derek, M/M, Pining Derek, The Yukon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: The snowmobile stutters to a halt on the banks of the river and Derek smiles when he sees a few ravens flying in circles in the distance.  The salmon are here.“Seems like I’m your lucky charm,”  Stiles says with a wink.Or the one where Derek lives in the middle of nowhere, and is probably in love with his delivery boy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliz/gifts).



> This is a gift for blizgori.tumblr.com, you didn't give me any prompts so I let my imagination run wild. Hope you like it, and happy holidays!!

Derek stares at the cursor hovering over the shopping cart.  It's one of the toughest decisions he's faced this week, and the moment he clicks that little transaction button, things are going to get serious.

Finally, he decides, _screw it_ , and presses the button.

 _Okay_ , he thinks.  _Now things are very serious_.

He proceeds to checkout.  By the time he emails one of the representatives from the company, explaining his shipping requirements, the timer beeps.  He walks over to his small kitchen, pulling hot caribou turnovers from the oven.  The whole kitchen smells delicious, and he salivates at the thought of the fresh pastry.  Biting into one, he hisses when the gamey filling burns his tongue. 

He's still waiting on the salmon run, but they should be arriving any day now.  He has it marked on the calendar.  They're late by a few days compared to last year, and the year before that.  Something he knows to blame on global warming.  He wishes the assholes who say it doesn't exist could experience what it’s like when half their food supply for the year shows up late.  See how fast they'll be switching to renewable forms of energy then. 

At least until the salmon show up he has the caribou in the deep freeze and root vegetables from his pantry. 

It's a good life, not an easy one by any measure of means, but a good one nonetheless.  The air is clean this far north.  Unsurprising, considering he's surrounded by nothing but evergreens, producing all the oxygen he could ever want. 

Sometimes he gets lonely.  Especially late at night when he has to crawl into a cold bed by himself.  But the heated fleece blanket and box set of all seven seasons of _Parks and Rec_ he just ordered should make his nights a little bit better.

Thank the universe for the wonders of the internet.  And Stiles, who a few weeks ago set up a satellite internet connection, allowing Derek to peruse the wonders of the world wide web from anywhere on his property.  It's limited by the weather, so he can never get a connection on overcast days.  But he has his DVD collection to take away his boredom.  _The West Wing_ and Martin Sheen is everything he could ever want on a gloomy day.

Sure it'll take at least a month for the blanket and DVDs to show up, but when it does, Stiles will come with it, and the thought of seeing him always makes a smile spread across Derek's face.

See, the thing is, Derek is pretty damned sure he's in love with Stiles.  From his permanently mussed hair, to his gorgeous amber eyes, to the way he looks draped over his snowmobile as he brings Derek his mail every few months.  Their interactions have been going on for years, but Derek has never once expressed his feelings.

Mostly because Stiles is the only real life human being he's seen in years—if Derek counts his grumpy old neighbour living a few hundred kilometres away.  And Derek most definitely does not count Mr. Jones.  Derek once caught him sneaking into his smoke house, trying to steal his salmon catch for the year.  What an asshole.

Because Stiles is the only flesh and blood human Derek comes into contact with on a semi regular basis, Derek’s feeling are probably just a coincidence.  A combination of loneliness and desperation. 

So yeah, maybe that's why Derek never tells Stiles how he feels, the moment he hears the crack and sputter of his snowmobile, as it races through the path Derek keeps clear just for him. 

Maybe that's why he never shouts his love to the heavens when millions of butterflies erupt in his belly as Stiles takes off his helmet and sends a blinding grin Derek's way.  Maybe that's why keeps his mouth shut even when a smile the size of the Yukon River floods over Derek's face and doesn't leave until Stiles does.

Or maybe it's because he only sees Stiles every few months, and is too afraid to get invested in a relationship when Stiles would just leave again after a few days.

***

Derek met Stiles three years ago after Bobby Finstock retired and he took over the inaptly named Finstock & Sons Courier Services.  Finstock didn't end up having sons.  Or any children, for that matter.  He just had Stiles working part time for him.

Finstock always did the deliveries and pick-ups for Derek, showing up every few months with a sled tied to his snowmobile.  They never had more that a relationship based on professionalism, but after Finstock retired without bothering to tell Derek, he wondered if they even had that at all.

He’d never met Stiles before, and it was the greatest surprise when he had come down Derek’s driveway, climbed off his snowmobile, and saluted Derek, introducing himself as Derek’s new delivery boy. 

Derek hadn’t liked him much at first, but Stiles was careful with Derek’s pieces—much more than Finstock was—and it quickly warmed Derek up to him.

During Stiles’ next visit, two months later, Derek had brought him into his studio, showing him around.  Finstock had never been invited past the front door. 

Stiles had marveled at a few unfinished pieces, as well as a ukulele, sharing a touching story about how his mom taught him how to play when he was little. 

He had showered Derek with compliments, enough to make him bold enough to ask Stiles to stay for dinner.  Stiles did, and it was one of the best nights he’d probably ever had.  Not because it was the first time he’d eaten with another human being in years, but because it was Stiles.  And Stiles is magnetic like that.

It’s not like Derek misses human company in general.  There’s a reason he left Whitehorse and bought a plot of land half a day’s drive away.  He missed his family and couldn’t stand the looks of pity he used to get from the locals.  The wilderness helps him escape from both.

He hears the grumble of the snowmobile as he sits in his studio, shaping a mahogany blank into a neck.  His dragon rasp is finally wearing away on him, but he hopes it lasts until he finishes this piece.  It was his dad’s, and his dad’s dad before him, so Derek’s reluctant to retire it.  The company that makes them was his dad’s favourite, until they shut down a while back.  Every other rasp he’s tried just doesn’t feel the same in his hand. 

The guitar he’s constructing was ordered by some big shot musician down in L.A., and the man is paying a killing for it.  Derek plans on having it finished within the next few months.  He’s in dire need of a new bandsaw, the one he has keeps jamming up on him for some reason.

He pulls on his jacket and walks out into the snow, watching Stiles drive up, snow blowing out behind him.

“I wasn’t expecting you so early,”  Derek says, walking up as Stiles pulls off his helmet.

Stiles smiles, lip twitching like he has a secret, Derek can’t help but smile in return.  Stiles’ happiness is contagious. 

“It’s Christmas in a few days, and I figured since my dad’s down in Cali enjoying his retirement, I might as well make sure you’re not up here all by your lonesome.”

Derek feels a blush spread over his face, but he smirks to hide it, “You just want caribou turnovers, I know you.”

Stiles bites his bottom lip, unable to fully hold back the grin taking over his face.  Quirking his brow, he says snarkily, “You got me.”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Come inside, I’ve got a fire going.”

He leads Stiles back to his studio.  There’s a long row of windows on one side of the building providing lots of natural light.  On the other, sits a wood burning stove and an armchair where Derek sometimes like to take a snooze—the smell of freshly cut wood hanging in the air.

Derek drags a chair over, letting Stiles take the armchair. 

He glances Stiles over.  His face is flushed from the cold, and his hair is messy from the helmet, he looks like he rode through a snowstorm to get to Derek, even though the weather’s been clear for the past few days.  He looks as beautiful as he always does.

“How have you been?”  Stiles asks as Derek quickly heats some water in a kettle, brewing them up some chicory tea.

“Great, I finished three more orders since you were here last.  They’ve just got to rest for a few more weeks before you can take them.”

“The salmon haven’t show up in Whitehorse, so I’m guessing they aren’t here yet?”  Stiles asks, taking the cup of tea Derek hands to him, gratefully gulping it down.

Derek shakes his head, sitting back in his chair.  “I’m expecting them any day now, but...”  He taps a finger against his bottom lip, and Stiles tips his head to the side questioning.

“What?”  Stiles asks.

“I was planning on taking a trip to the Yukon River to check if the salmon are there.  Wanna come?  If you’re not too tired, that is,”  Derek offers, already predicting Stiles’ answer.

“Duh.”

They take Derek’s snowmobile, hooking up a sled and nets, just in case Derek finds what he’s looking for. 

He steers them through the trail he made years ago, leading to a tributary of the Yukon River.  Derek knows some of the chinook like to take a shortcut through the tributary before joining up with the rest of the run.  It’s a good spot for them to fish.  The river is still wide, but it’s not as deep or as fast. 

Stiles hangs onto his waist as Derek drives, relishing the heat and weight of his arms around his waist—something Derek is sure to miss when he leaves.

The snowmobile stutters to a halt on the banks of the river and Derek smiles when he sees a few ravens flying in circles in the distance.  The salmon are here.

“Seems like I’m your lucky charm,”  Stiles says with a wink, hopping off the vehicle.

Derek snorts.  “Don’t let it go to your head,”  he digs around in the sled and tosses Stiles a pair of waders.  Stiles stares at them with a horrified look on his face.  “Oh c’mon do I really have to wear these?  I’m going to look ridiculous.”

Derek pulls his own pair from the sled.  “Then we’ll look ridiculous together.”  Stiles still looks at them skeptically, pursing his lips like he’s actually considering going without them.  “If you don’t wear them, don’t curse at me when you’re soaked up to your knees in ice cold water.”

Stiles looks out over the river, making a face when he sees small chunks of ice floating along in the currents.  “Alright, alright,”  He sighs.

While Derek gets all the equipment they need ready, he sees Stiles sitting on a boulder by the shore, looking out over the river.  He wonders what Stiles is looking at, until he sees a black bear on the opposite bank swatting at the water with a big paw.  Its efforts are rather ineffective, considering it comes up with no fish.  The bear eventually disappears back into the forest.  It’ll probably try its luck further downstream where the current breaks on a series of rocks.

“Haven’t you ever seen a bear before?”  Derek asks, walking up behind Stiles.  He takes the net Derek offers him.

Stiles looks at Derek like he’s stupid, and to be fair, it was a stupid question.  They live in the Yukon, bears are consistent pests.  “Last time I saw one fishing during the run, I was in down in B.C., hiking with Lydia.  It was a spirit bear.”

“Yeah?”  Derek asks wondrously.  Kermode bears, or spirit bears as some call them, are an extremely rare white variation of the common black bear.  There’s only a one in a thousand chance that someone would stumble upon them by accident.  “That’s lucky.”

Stiles chuckles as they walk along the shoreline, trying to find the area most teaming with the red bellied fish.  “It caught a fish in a single swipe, didn’t even need to work hard at it.  You should have seen the stack of them it was stockpiling on the shore, such a hoarder.”

Derek steps into the chill water, not feeling it at all through his insulated waders.  “The salmon probably didn’t even see it coming.  The bears look just like fluffy little clouds to them.”

“I wonder what we look like to the salmon,”  Stiles says in a tone of voice sounding like he’s seriously considering the mental states of salmon.

Derek huffs.  “They’ve probably never seen one of you before,”  He says, humouring Stiles.  “You’re likely a very short tree to them.”

“I’ll have you know, buddy,”  Stiles says haughtily, a hand on his hip and smirk on his face, “I look like a very tall tree.”

Derek nods his head sarcastically, as he dips his net into the water.  “You keep telling yourself that.”

***

Two days pass in blink of an eye, Stiles having helped Derek prepare his catch, after which they had packed all of Derek’s orders onto Stiles’ sled, padded and protect to prevent any damage to the expensive instruments.  Stiles could leave at any time, he’s done his job, but Derek hopes he stays, at least for a few more days. 

 Derek places a freshly baked turnover onto his plate, while Stiles sits at his dining table, invoices scattered all over the surface.  He’s directly in front of Derek’s second story bay window, looking over a view that Derek’s extremely proud of.  The northern lights shine through, twisting and shifting over the expanse of the deep night sky.

“These are going to California then?” Stiles points to a stack of paper. 

Derek leans against the counter, biting into a turnover.  Stiles has already had five so far, an impressive achievement considering Derek feels full after only three.  “Yeah, I’ve also got one that’s supposed to be sent to the Catskills.”

Stiles’ brows fly up to his hairline, and he digs back into the stack, finally excavating a sheet with an “ah-ha!”

“A mandolin.”  Stiles whistles.  “I didn’t know you knew how to make those.”

“It’s easy.” Derek shrugs.  “Mandolins have nearly the same construction as a guitar, just the back bulges and it’s slightly smaller.”

“Easy for you to say.  Not all of us are instrument-building prodigies.”

“I’m not a prodigy,”  Derek mutters, his ears burning.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Instrument-building, _humble_ prodigies.”

“Shut up, Stiles,”  Derek says quickly, knowing he must be bright red underneath his beard.  He quickly gathers Stiles’ and his plates, turning around to wash them in the sink.

“You’re cute when you pretend you’re not a genius,”  Stiles says out of nowhere.  Derek whips around, staring at him incredulously.  Stiles scratches the back of his head, looking down at the table.  The tips of his ears are red, and Derek just wants to wrap him in his arms and never let go.  Instead he swallows.

“You think I’m cute?”  He asks, throat bobbing.

“Well, you know, you’ve got that look, the umm…  cute look with your bunny teeth and pretty eyes,”  Stiles blathers on, obviously embarrassed.

Derek’s at a loss for words.  He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, trying to find something to say, but everything escapes him.  He knows Stiles turns him into a lovesick fool, but this is taking things to another level.

Stiles hurriedly gets to his feet half tripping over his chair on his way to standing.  “You should ignore everything I just said,”  He rushes to say, “I don’t mean to be unprofessional.  It’s just… just…”  He shakes his head.  “Nothing, is what I’m saying.  Is the guest room ready?”  He asks abruptly.

Derek’s too surprised to do anything but nod. 

“Okay great.”  Stiles gathers all the papers to his chest.  “I’ll see you in the morning.  Happy Christmas Eve!”

Derek blinks.  He completely forgot tomorrow was Christmas. 

He collapses in the chair Stiles just vacated.  Vaguely, he wonders how Stiles will feel about the gift Derek made for him.  It’s been sitting on his shelf for months, since he first thought of the idea in the summer. 

Hopefully tonight’s awkwardness will evaporate before Stiles leaves tomorrow, so Derek can give it to him.

***

Derek wakes to the sound of an motor running. 

He’s so scared that it’s Stiles leaving without saying goodbye that he jumps right out of bed in his flannel pajamas, rushing out the door, only just remembering to slip into his boots.

Instead of Stiles’s snowmobile disappearing around the bend, he finds it where it was left: covered under the awning, the sled still detached and in Derek’s garage.

He shivers, feeling the chill seep through his clothes, wondering just what he heard if it wasn’t the snowmobile.  The motor grinds away again, and Derek turns around.  The sound is coming from his studio. 

Smoke rises from the chimney, and Derek pushes the door open to find Stiles bent in front of his bandsaw, the motor cover open, wrenches scattered around on the floor.

“Stiles?”  Derek asks, confused.

“Shit!”  Stiles startles, banging his head on the edge of the machine.  Stiles dejectedly rubs the bump that’s likely forming.  “Geez, don't sneak up on me like that.”          

“What’re you doing?”  Derek asks, walking closer.  Stiles looks up, double-taking at Derek’s choice of outfit, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Fixing your bandsaw.  You told me about it a few weeks ago on the phone, don’t you remember?  I ordered a new belt for you, replaced the old one.”  He points to a long strip of worn out rubber on the floor.  “Figured that was the problem with it when you said it kept making weird noises.”

“You’re fixing my bandsaw?”  Derek asks, dumbfounded.  “I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

“Dude, I know basic machines.”  Stiles says, picking up a wrench and screwing back in a bolt.  “It’s the same with washing machines, if something with a motor starts shaking and making the noises you described, it’s usually the belt.”

“How much did it cost?  Let me repay you,”  Derek offers.

Stiles shakes his head.  “Nah, dude, it wouldn’t be a Christmas present if you did that.  Also, that reminds me, your other present’s over there.”  He points to Derek’s worktable where a garishly decorated, long rectangular box sits.

Derek walks over, picking up the gift carefully, finding it hefty.  Derek calls over his shoulder.  “Can I open it?”

“Yeah, don’t wait for me,”  Stiles says back.

Derek strips off the gift wrap and when he opens the box, he feels tears forming in his eyes.

“Stiles,”  Derek says, his voice choked up,  “How?”

“You like it?”  Stiles asks, and Derek turns around to find him standing directly behind him, a happy smile on his face.  “I knew you’d like it.  I saw it in a pawn shop down in Victoria.  It was a complete coincidence that I stumbled upon it.”

“How’d you know?”  Derek repeats.  “How’d you know this was the same rasp my father used?”

Stiles smiles even brighter.  “Is it?  I just remembered the same symbol on the handle, and the last time I saw you work, you used this tool the most.”  Stiles’ eyes grow soft and he steps closer.  “I didn’t know it meant something to you personally.”

Derek nods, dashing tears out of his eyes.  He looks at Stiles, hair mussed with a grease smear on his face, and remembers he has a gift to give him too.  “Wait here,”  Derek says.

He walks over to one of his storage cupboards.  Digging around for a bit, he finally retrieves a present wrapped in plain white paper—he didn’t have any gift wrap.

“Here,”  He says, handing it to Stiles.

“What is it?”  Stiles asks with a perplexed look on his face, shaking the medium-sized box lightly.

“Be careful,”  Derek hurries to say, he doesn’t want it breaking before Stiles even gets a chance to open it.

Stiles unwraps it, his confusion changing to wide-eyed disbelief as he reveals the case his gift is contained within.

“Derek,”  Stiles says, his voice low and shaking,  “If this turns out to be what I think it is I…”  He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Open it and see,”  Derek urges.  Stiles cracks open the case, and his breath stutters in shock.  Derek looks at him, but his face is a black canvas, he can’t even tell if Stiles like the gift or not, or if it was too presumptuous of him.  “Do you like it?”  He asks carefully.

“Do I like it?”  Stiles repeats back as he stares down at the ukulele in his arms.  “You made me an instrument.  An instrument that I told you, once, _years_ ago, was something my mother taught me to play.”

Stiles puts down the case and reaches for Derek, pulling him into a hug.  Derek returns it full-heartedly, wrapping his arms tight around Stiles’ middle.  He tucks his face into Stiles’ throat, breathing in the warmth of his skin and the faint hint of machine oil, clinging to him.

He feels Stiles pull away, but his arms still remain, wrapped around Derek’s neck.   “Derek,”  Stiles says, his voice quiet,  “I really wanna kiss you right now.”

Derek blinks, heat flooding his face, but he leans closer, wordlessly giving Stiles permission.  Stiles presses the sweetest of kisses to his mouth, and Derek can’t help the small gasp he lets out.

“Happy Christmas, Derek.”  Stiles says softly.

“Happy Christmas, Stiles,”  Derek repeats, closing his eyes and enjoying the moment.  “Would you stay for a bit longer?”  Derek asks after a few moments of silence filled by their soft breaths and the crackling of the wood stove.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Also, for the sake of this fic, and my own mental health, let’s pretend that the chinook salmon run happens during the winter, and not August like it actually does.)


End file.
